


The All American Douche

by Michelleleahhh



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Cancer, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelleleahhh/pseuds/Michelleleahhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t you think your a little young to have a bucket list?”  </p><p>Katniss shrugs, for the first time looking deeply into Peeta's eyes. They’re so clear, you can see every emotion in them, he’s too open, she decides. He’s too open to be an All-American-Douche. “I do.” She nods, tugging on her braid as she holds the journal to her small chest.  “But cancer doesn’t.” </p><p>Written for the Write-Me-A-Story-Hunger-Games-Challenge. Winner: Best Katniss and Voters Choice</p>
            </blockquote>





	The All American Douche

 

 

The rain teems against the window causing the glass to reverberate against Katniss’ forehead. In two hours, she’d finally be off this train that bizarrely resembles purgatory. Babies wail, teens gossip; a chatty Effie two rows in front of her won’t shut up about the latest office scandal. So, Katniss is convinced: purgatory. 

 

And as if purgatory doesn’t have enough people, Rhode Island seems to be the perfect place to pick up devious stragglers. Katniss has to hold back a groan when she sees the people shuffling in the storm, waiting for the train. 

 

It looked like an entire fucking college was there in red, white, and blue, frat boys and sorority girls unfortunately included. She instantly wishes her sister, Prim, gave her a gun instead of pepper spray, just so she could off herself right then and there.

 

Seats fill quickly as people scramble in. Katniss sits alone, closing her eyes, contemplating if this is a good time to finally pray. Please no frat boys, please no lax douchebags, please no catty bitches. 

 

She doesn’t need a twenty-something, flask drinking, hipster looking man, trying to grope her as she sleeps. 

 

She is perfectly happy on her own. She doesn’t want someone next to her, she doesn’t want to make small talk. She wants solitude. Splendid solitude. 

 

And as if God hasn’t already made a joke of her life, she can feel a trudging, loud individual plop into the seat next to her, not even trying to be graceful or considerate as she pretends to sleep. She’s pretending to sleep here, and he doesn't even care, no, he’s just leaving water droplets on her jean shorts. 

 

With an exaggerated huff, Katniss bolts upright, dizzy from her fast movements, and glares at the person next to her. 

 

A broad, blonde haired, blinding blue eyed, All-American-Frat-Douche. He’s even wearing a hat with the American flag on it. Fucking frats. She hates frat guys. Or, well, she imagines she hates them because she’s never actually met one. But All-American-Douche isn’t even looking at her; nope, he’s chatting to another pretentious dick diagonal from him, making friends wherever he goes. 

 

Fuck it. She takes a calming breath in and slowly exhales.

 

She crosses her arms over her chest, and stomps her leg like a perturbed child trying to draw an apology out of the boy. She should thank genetics for her stubborn and cynical attitude, it’s hereditary. 

 

“I’m sorry, this seat wasn’t taken… was it?” He asks apologetically, sounding genuine, much to her annoyance. It doesn’t sound like sweet melodies, nor does it sound forced, his voice is just average, like him, just the average All-American-Douche who probably chases his Jack Daniels with Budweiser. 

 

Ok, so she’s a bit judgmental. She’s allowed to be.

 

“Nope,” she dismisses, scowling at him. And irritatedly he grins widely at her. 

 

She turns away from him looking for something, anything to do. If she’s doing something then he won’t try and talk. He better not be a talker. She prays for silence.

 

“Where are you headed?” 

 

God hates her.

 

Maybe she should try praying to something more cultural. Maybe to one of the Romanian Pagan Gods her mother has idols of around the house. 

 

Who is she kidding, she looks and feels as Romanian as Kim Kardashian does.

 

Maybe if she responds to All-American-Douche in one word answers he’ll get the hint and stay away from her. “The City.” 

 

His grin grows, something she didn’t think possible. “Me too! Are you going for the game?” 

 

Ok, maybe no answer will get him off her back. Katniss shakes her head. No.

 

“US has got this in the bag, I mean Belgium’s what, the size of Massachusetts?” He laughs, “There can’t be many good players from there, right?” 

 

She likes Belgium. She likes their waffles, their size, she even adores its language. (Flemmish - it’s cool to say even in English.) And fine, maybe it has something to do with Colin Farrell and that movie he was in.

“Germany’s smaller than Texas and they still kicked our ass. So, I wouldn’t get too excited.” She heatedly defends. Poor Belgium, she’ll protect them. 

 

“You do realize your American?” He asks with squinting eyes, frowning at her.

 

“Oh, are you American? I didn’t realize that your ancestors were from here.” 

 

He barks an irritating laugh. “I like you, you’ve got fire. I’m Peeta,” he introduces holding out his hand.

 

She refuses to believe that Peeta is his name, All-American-Douche just fits so well. 

 

“Katniss,” she says taking his hand, ignoring a small spark that ignites when they touch. 

 

“So, why are you going to New York City?” He asks, peering friendly at her,

 

She wants to see a New York sunset, even if its only once. “I’m going to see Radio City Music Hall.” But her voice is lost amongst a rowdy, passing crowd. She’s captivated by how ridiculous they look dressed in very American gear, which has grabbed Peeta’s attention. 

 

Peeta reaches out his palm chanting USA as they pass, slapping hands, probably contracting 10,000 different diseases. But as if the whole crowd is friends with Peeta, they all begin to chant with him. 

 

Katniss looks at him, realizing for the first time that he’s wearing a soccer jersey, she wonders if he’s actually a fan or is just a bandwagon supporter. She notices the way the jersey hugs his biceps. Subconsciously, Katniss imagines a life where they could be together, where she’s a cheerleader or a gymnast or something. A life where he takes her to Homecoming and she touches his biceps and they get married and have babies and live happily ever after with his biceps.

 

Hah, Katniss have kids. Even she knows that’s a joke. 

 

The thought makes her laugh, and when Peeta hears it, he turns back to look at her, probably conceitedly thinking that it’s for his chanting. He moves towards her and clutches her hand to join in the fist pumping: USA. 

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, closely to her ear, “Is this crossing a line?” He lets go of her hand smiling at her, their noses almost touching. 

 

“Kind of.” But Katniss’ smile is surprisingly large for how uncomfortable she’s pretending to feel.

 

“So why Radio City?” 

 

“Why not,” she challenges.

 

“Because the World Cup is on! It only happens once every four years!” 

 

Katniss nods her head, “Well, I’ve never been to Radio City… so…” 

 

“You’ve never,” He gasps, looking around in disbelief, shocked at her admission. “You’ve never, never been to Radio City?”

 

Katniss looks at him skeptically, he doesn’t seem like the tourist type. “You have?”

 

“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, laughing, when she scowls at him. “Sorry, that was too easy.” 

 

“Well your missing out, there’s great history there.” 

 

“You know where else there’s history?” He asks, leaning into her personal space again. She already knows where this is going and rolls her eyes, mouthing the words as he says them, “The world cup.”

 

He reaches into his jeans pocket and wedges something out. It takes her a few seconds to realize that it’s a silver flask, her eyes bugging out of her head at the realization. 

 

“What are you doing?” She hisses at him, “If someone sees you...”

 

He merely shrugs and uncaps the metal container, bringing it to his lips. She tries not to be enthralled by the way his Adams Apple bounces when he sips the liquid. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and holds the flask out to her with raised eyebrows, trying to tempt her with the forbidden juice. 

 

And just like that, he’s once again the All-American-Douche. She shakes her head at him. 

 

“Come on, girl on fire, it’s only a drink.” She continues to shake her head and lightly tugs braided hair, a nervous trait. “Just have some fun.” 

 

She looks at him, letting go of her braid. “I’ve just never drank before,” her cheeks heating at her confession. 

 

He looks stunned, “How old are you?”

 

Katniss averts her silver eyes as he tries to hold her gaze. She quietly mumbles, “Eighteen.”

 

He reclines in his seat, his hands adjusting the hat on his head as he stares disbelieving at her, “You’re eighteen?” He groans, “I’m sorry… I thought you were older. God I must seem like such a creep.”

 

She looks out the window cursing herself. Why did she say that? She wishes she was more adventurous, had little cares; she wishes she could just let go and drink and do teenage things. Fuck it, she just wants to let go.

 

Fuck it, let go. 

 

She reaches her hands across to Peeta, and pulls the flask from his loose grasp. Before he can take it back, before her brain can catch up to her actions, before she can over think, she opens the flask and chugs it dry, ignoring the revolting taste that floods her mouth. She pulls the flask from her lips coughing and screwing up her face as she returns the flask to him. 

 

“What- what was that?” It was awful, disgusting. Oh god, why did she do that. She looks at Peeta who’s jaw is hanging open as she coughs, her eyes watering and hand pounding on her chest.

 

“Did- Did you just drink the whole flask?” He questions. 

“Yeah,” She grunts, trying to hide the disgust on her face. He turns to his friend diagonal, while Katniss is preoccupied with trying not vomit all over the train. Peeta shoves a water bottle into her hands. She opens and chugs it, as he pats her back. 

 

He shakes his head, laughing, as she tries to ignore the tingles his hands leave down her spine, “I can’t believe you just did that.”

 

“I can’t believe I just did that” She hands the water back to him, “Thanks. And, uh-sorry about drinking all of it. What was that?”

 

“Jack Daniels. But don’t worry about it, I have a case of Bud, do you want some?” Katniss rolls her eyes, at he’s typicality. 

 

She looks at him skeptically. Honestly, what harm could it do, she’s already d-

 

Not now. 

 

She doesn’t want to think about it now. She just wants to get whisked away by this All-American-Douche. So she accepts his offer of beer, and she hides hers in a brown paper bag, as he drinks his freely without care.

 

Time ticks by as they talk. Katniss finishes her first beer and moves onto another, feeling a slight buzz and starts to talk about herself. He listens, keeping the conversation lightheaded.

 

He likes orange, she likes green.

 

He’s 21 and going into his junior year of college. She’s 18 and won’t be going to college. 

 

He says it’s not for everybody, she agrees for other reasons. 

 

He’s majoring in art and business; she thinks that’s useless combination, he laughs and sort of agrees. 

 

She accuses him of being a bandwagon soccer fan, he admits to being a bandwagon soccer fan. 

 

She kind of likes his company. Kind of. He completely enjoys her company. Completely.

 

Katniss reaches for her backpack, feeling buzzed from the whisky and beer. She pulls out a leather journal; it’s tan and smooth, embossed with a sundial. She flips through the pages, tapping a pen to her plump, chapped lips searching for a certain page. 

 

She smiles full heartedly, as she crosses it off.

 

“What are you doing?” Peeta’s voice startles her, she almost forgot he was there. 

 

Katniss looks up and smiles at him, “Crossing this off my bucket list.”

 

“Don’t you think your a little young to have a bucket list.” 

 

Katniss shrugs, for the first time looking deeply into his eyes. They’re so clear, you can see every emotion in them, he’s too open, she decides. He’s too open to be an All-American-Douche. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

“I do.” She nods, tugging on her braid as she holds the journal to her small chest.

 

Let it go.

 

 “But cancer doesn’t.” 

 

She sees Peeta swallow hard, and she should be all weepy and crying, but she’s already realized she’s dying. And now she’s maybe a little drunk, and God help her, she’s crossing that off her list. Number 27. Get drunk off of JD like Ke$ha.

 

When his silence stretches, she realizes she made a huge, rearing mistake. Oh God, why did she do that. She’s an idiot, thinking this frat boy could sympathize with her. Thinking he could be her friend. She hates herself, her situation, her stupidity. She hates her blinding, youthful stupidity.

 

“Let me see that,” he nods to the book nestled between her arms. 

 

She clasps it tighter, scared to let anyone other than herself see it. If she shows it to someone-to him-it’s real. That this adventure is real. 

 

And lets be honest, there’s some scandalous things in there, like skinny dipping or sex in an infinity pool. She can’t show him. 

 

She looks down at it and up at him. 

 

Fuck it. Let it go.

 

She hands the list over to him. He takes it and begins to intently read it over.

 

44: See Radio City Music Hall.  
45: See the Sunset in New York City  
46: Go to an outdoor theater

 

He chuckles, “Guess what’s at an outdoor theater!” She swallows.

 

“The World Cup?” She guesses lamely.

 

“The World Cup.”

 

Peeta flips pages, not really looking at anything in particular. He gets to the beginning and his finger lingers on the second line. 

 

2: Have a real first kiss.

 

She hears him take a deep breath in, glancing at her. She can’t look at him and instead bites her lips, pulling on the split ends of her braid. She can feel the electricity between them accumulating, or at least she thinks so. She hates herself for this, her cheeks burning, her mouth feeling dry. How did she always end up in these awkward situations. She hates that she just bared herself to this… this man.

 

And when she feels his eyes on her, she turns her head, shutting her eyes, waiting. 

 

Instead of his lips on hers, “You need to work on this list. Where’s ‘drink at a bar’ or ‘win the lottery’?”

 

She laughs, opening her eyes ignoring her stupidity. “Well it’s better than yours.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

______

 

Before she knows it, their train pulls into New York City. Their conversation gets awkward then, knowing they’d soon be parting ways. It was three and the sun was shining, the earlier rainstorm left behind in Rhode Island with her solitude. She suddenly realizes she doesn’t want to be alone. 

 

“Well, I guess this is it,” she sighs, clumsily gathering her backpack from the floor. 

 

Peeta stares at her, making her feel uncomfortable, as she’s finally able to huddle her backpack on her lap. “Come watch the game. It’s outside in Bryant Park. Then we’ll walk up to Radio City and kill two birds,” he coaxes.

 

Katniss hates crowds. And he’s with a crowd. There will be so many people there.

 

And then Katniss remembers her motto for the day. Fuck it. 

 

Just, fuck it. Let it go. 

 

“What about your friends?”

 

Peeta frowns at her, “What about them?”

 

“I don’t want to take you from them.”

 

He silences her, tells her to forget about them. He pulls her up when the train starts to let people out, keeping her hands in his the whole time, and leads them through the door. Her stomach drops at the contact, and she can’t help but ogle his broad back, his well filled, faded jeans. When they get on the platform he leads her to a large group of young adults all disturbing the scant peace at Penn Station. Katniss wishes she could be like that. 

 

When they walk up, she can’t help but notice a few people who turn and give her a once over. When they notice her hands in Peeta’s their eyes narrow, and well… if looks could kill. 

 

“Who’s this?” A blonde sneers flipping her long hair.

 

The blonde man who sat diagonal from them stands next to her, smiling. “This is Katniss, Peeta’s drinking buddy,” he says as he flips a sugar cube into his mouth and puts his arm around a red head. “If you get tired of spending time with him, just come hang with me,” he winks at her. 

 

He makes her uncomfortable, and without realizing it, she nestles closer to Peeta’s side, which molds around her.

 

Peeta glowers at him. “Finn,” he warns in a deep voice. Finn puts his hands in the air and chuckles. 

 

“She’s not even dressed.” The blonde whispers loudly. 

 

Katniss cowers, about to turn and leave. She doesn’t need this, she doesn’t need to be attacked, she’s not going to let some bitch make her feel like shit. She has enough shit. She forgot she has to stop somewhere for that thing, anyway. 

 

But he takes his hat off his head, his blonde curls bouncing free, and puts it on her, slightly adjusting it, making her forget again about that thing that she doesn’t have planned.

 

“There,” he smiles, pulling her braid over her shoulder, and running his finger along her intricately wound, dark locks. She smiles at him. “Alright, let’s make moves, yeah?” He suggests pulling her with him, walking towards the subway. 

 

When they get to Bryant Park, there’s a cheering sea of red, white, and blue. The game just beginning.  Peeta sits on the grass, pulling her down with him. Side by side, legs touching. 

 

“I’ve never seen a soccer match before,” she confides to Peeta. 

 

He shakes his head and gawks at her, “Is there anything you have done? I’m sorry... but put this on the list. Now.”

 

She pushes him, causing him to topple over with a laugh. She looks at the screen confused as he pulls himself up back to her. 

 

“Which one is the US again?” 

 

Peeta sighs and puts his head in his hands.

 

_________

 

Belgium scores first. Katniss’ isn’t surprised. No offense, but the US doesn’t seem ready for this match. Their defense is barely holding on and they haven’t held the ball for more than five minutes. But the rest of the crowd is enraged, throwing food, and drinks, and obscenities into the open city air. Peeta jumps to his feet and starts bellowing at someone named Zuzu or Zusi or something.  

 

Katniss does an internal dance for Belgium, a tiny, little Cupid Shuffle that has her smiling. They deserve something, all they have is waffles and Audrey Hepburn. Let the Belgians win. LET THE BELGIANS WIN. 

 

But as the game wears on, the US ties it up an amazing kick from Dempsey, no relation to Patrick. Much to her surprise, Katniss gets on her feet and springs into the air. Maybe it’s because of all four beer she’s drank since she got to the outdoors, or maybe it’s just Peeta’s intoxicating presence. But she finds herself swept into Peeta’s arms as he swings her around celebrating the goal. She even joins in when everyone starts chanting, “I believe that we will win.” He puts her down, as she gasps for breath laughing, winded, her face inches from Peeta’s. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is Number Two. She waits for him.

 

She feels normal. For that brief and humane moment, Katniss Everdeen feels like the normal eighteen year old she should be. It’s freeing. Like the crisp air at the beach in winter, just staring into nothingness as the stars reflect off the dark waters and small snowflakes dance through the sky. She hasn’t felt like this in years. She hasn’t felt like this since she was sixteen, and that thought almost makes her cry. All she wants to do is lean in and throw solitude away permanently, but she knows this is just for today. As does Peeta, who takes a step back, breaking her trance that almost threw caution away.

 

She and Peeta land on the ground and he pulls her between his legs. “You’re my good luck charm,” he whispers into her hat-clad-head, grinning madly.

 

She ignores the fluttering in her stomach. 

 

She’s never sat like this with a man. With his arms holding her, his legs shelled around hers. (That’s a first she decides not to tell him.) She can feel his chest pressed against her back. Hard like a wall, yet delicately caressing her like the summer breeze.

 

After ten minutes of sitting like this, she begins to feel sore; her back hurts and she has a massive headache. She curses herself, and her body. She curses her forgetfulness. 

 

She opens her backpack and finds her weekly pill box. While keeping it inside the bag,  she opens the Tuesday tab and takes the seven pills into her hand and shoves them into her mouth, taking a sip of water to wash them down. She then sifts through her backpack and pulls out a granola bar. She opens and begins to eat it. She turns behind her and sees Peeta looking at her suspiciously, but, instead of commenting, he opens his mouth. She smirks at him and breaks off a piece, plopping it passed his lips. He smiles at her and turns back to the screen, resting his head on hers. 

 

The US loses, but Peeta swears he’s ok, he just has some dirt in his eye. Katniss doesn’t believe him. He finishes the last of his Budweiser as the crowd dissipates around them. She’s moved from between his legs, her head laying down on Peeta’s leg as she stares at the blue, cloudless sky. She should feel naive for acting so intimate, but his thumb is tracing her hair line as he sits dejectedly on the grass.

 

They haven’t talked about tomorrow, or how long he’s staying, or his plans for the rest of the day. They haven’t talked about the future, and that’s something Katniss is happy about. People too often ask about the future and leave her with nothing to say. She has no plans, other than her journal and backpack. Time passes and his friends pair off two by three, leaving Katniss and Peeta on the Battery Park lawn.

 

She sits up quickly, getting lightheaded from her jerky movements. She looks down at the grass with her eyes closed, focusing on the stillness of the Earth beneath her. 

 

“You ok?” She hears Peeta whisper beside her. 

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” she dismisses, finally glancing at him. She sees the concern etched across his face, his eyebrows knitted closely together. “So I think I’m going to go…” she trails off, pulling the blades of grass from below her fingers. 

 

“But, we still have to go to Radio City,” he argues.

 

“Oh, you don’t have to go with me. I can make it on my own.”

 

“But I’ve never been.” He pouts at her, “I’ve always wanted to go.”

 

“You have not.” She swats his chest. 

 

“Humor me, please?”

 

She rolls her eyes and huffs, “I guess…”

 

They get up from the grass, Katniss straightening her back and wincing slightly as she stretches, accidentally dropping her blue backpack. Without even having to say a word, Peeta picks up her bag and slings it over his shoulder. 

 

“God, are there rocks in here?”

 

“Yep, they are my pets. My only friends,” she drones in a mock sadness. 

 

“You lead such a sad existence,” he quips. “Are you tired?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Are you tired? Because if not, we could walk there, you can see the city in all its concrete glory.”

 

She is tired. Her feat hurt, her back hurts, But she’s sat enough today. She doesn’t even know when she’ll be back in New York. Perhaps never, and she doesn’t want this moment to slip by. 

 

This time, she takes his hand. “Lead the way, tour guide.” 

 

The city streets are packed, at least that’s what Katniss thinks, she’s never actually seen New York before… so...

 

They wander the streets, she tries a hot dog, under Peeta’s advisement. She’s disappointed by the fact that it’s delicious and wants another.

She gets a red and white soccer hat, to show her support for Belgium of course. She can’t admit to Peeta that America has a new place in her heart, and that she’s disappointed they lost, but he has an idea of her new allegiance. She is American after all. 

 

He buys American flag sunglasses for himself. She tells him they look awful. 

 

So, he gets her a pair too. 

 

They mosey up the New York streets. He gets clipped by a cab, she forgets about the pain flittering throughout her body. She forgets about everything except for Peeta, New York City, and the sunset. Oh and of course that hotdog. 

 

By the time they make it to West 51st Street, it’s dusk. The white, summer sun falls between the buildings causing explosive sun rays and skyscraper silhouettes. It’s absolutely beautiful. Katniss can see it from where she’s standing and on the far left, Radio City Music Hall. It’s right there, so close she could just run a few steps and be under the sign.  

 

“Wow,” Peeta breathes next to her. 

 

“Yeah.” She murmurs, then turns to him and asks, pointing to the knapsack on his shoulders, “May I?” He slips it off, already knowing what she’s about to do, reaches inside, and hands the journal to her.

 

She finds 44, 45, 46. She crosses them off. Just like the first. 

1\. Move. 

She realizes this is real. That she won’t be going home, that she won’t see Prim again, or her mom or dad. She can’t do it, she can’t let them watch her die. She won’t let anyone watch her body decay, it’s bad enough she has to watch it. This is how she wants to live, meeting strangers under bright sunsets. 

 

And she laughs, sadly. Tears pooling in her eyes as she crosses them off. Three more things she’s done. The sunset’s so breathtaking, and the man next to her is anything but a stranger now. She looks into his ocean depths. She should break his gaze, because he can see her, bare and unguarded, so different from the bitter girl earlier on the train. She should have stayed in her solitude, she should have known better because he’s made her feel so naked. She feels so naked. 

 

 “How long?” He finally asks, the question probably plaguing him from the beginning.

 

Fuck it. 

 

“A-” She gulps for air. 

 

Let it go. 

 

 “One month... They gave me three you know. But… But I don’t want treatment, I don’t want to prolong this. I want to be me, stay me. I want to be able to run and-and try Jack Daniels and learn about soccer, and see sunsets and eat street hot dogs. I still want to be me… you know.” She laughs, playing it off. She’s had time to deal with this, she’s fought this demon for two years. 

 

She’ll keep fighti-

 

And just like that, his lips are on hers. She pulls back, her eyes wide and hands over her mouth, dropping the journal on the curb between them.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this all day.” He reaches, takes her braid and unties it, running his finger through her curled tresses. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

 

She laughs, “You don’t have to say that to me.” 

 

He shakes his head, “You don’t know the effect you have, Katniss.” It’s the first time he said her name and she’d do anything to hear it again. It falls easy on his lips, so easy. 

 

He tucks a loose strand behind her ear. His hand lightly rests on her jaw, stroking soft circles on her skin. He lightly tips her jaw back, her eyes flutter close as his mouth dances closer to hers. After a deep breath in, he just stays there, letting his breath linger on her, before he kisses the corner of her mouth, then moving his lips to brush against her forehead, her cheek, her nose. Her breath hitches slightly, anticipating his next move.

 

Then finally, his mouth slants over hers, pressing lightly. He’s soft, moving slowly, then she feels his tongue line her lips, asking for entrance. She parts her mouth ever so slightly and tastes him. His taste makes her moan. She comes alive at the feel of his tongue, her hands winding themselves into his blonde curls. 

 

He commands the kiss, steering it into a blissful, mindless pleasure that leaves Katniss wanting more. He groans when her tongue slips into his mouth. She’s fumbling, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but soon his hands are pressing into her back pulling her closer to him. A hunger overtaking her, spreading throughout her body and igniting her soul. 

 

They stay like that, entangled in one another, neither ready to leave the embrace.  Neither ready to face reality when they have to pull away and say goodbye, go their seperate ways. She’s not ready for that. She’ll never be ready for that. 

 

“Why don’t I show you to your hotel?” He suggests, twirling her hair in his fingers. Wiggling his eyebrows before adding he’d be a complete gentleman. But she doesn’t want that, she doesn’t want him to be a gentleman. 

 

She leans into his touch, her features illuminated by the sunset. “Can we stay out here for a bit?”

 

“Of course.” He reassures, soothing her. 

 

“It’s just... it’s because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and… and I don’t want to miss any of them.” 

 

He kisses the top of her head and winds his arms around her, as she welcomes this sunset, the first welcomed one in a while.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, to the judges and to anyone who reads this! I may add some one-shots if y'all would like.


End file.
